The Story of a Man without a Story
I didn't even know the name Constantin Fântâneru.1 His only novel, Interior, appeared in 1932, and received the prize of the Society of Romanian Authors (despite the opposition of Mircea Eliade, who judged that it lacked a subject). In 2010, Interior was translated into Spanish and published by El Nadir (Valencia, 2010). I read it and was amazed by the lyricism of Fântâneru's prose, the brilliant adjectivation of his sentences; it is a work whose form and style strongly reveals the logic of his writing, even if it does indeed lack a plot or argument. The latter is not a criticism. There is a precise reason for the absence of a narrative argument, we could almost say a necessity. Every writing is autobiographical in the sense that it is impossible for it not to reflect the secret subjective force from which the creative process emanates. In this case, fidelity to its author is conveyed in the way the writing embodies the strange mental composition of the central character, which is none other than Fântâneru himself.
In a world that struggles to impose a model notion of normality, psychoanalysis celebrates the wealth of “subjective biodiversity”, to use a term that has recently gained widespread popularity. Because biodiversity should also extend to humans, in the sense that we must admit the unprecedented, non-standardized ways by which a person is formed and settled into existence. Psychoanalysts have found that symptoms cannot just be considered pathological formations whose elimination would be desirable by definition. There are on the contrary many symptoms that help us to live, similar to those prostheses of the spirit that enable some subjects to sustain themselves in life. Writing can fulfill that prosthetic role very well, as was the case for James Joyce and so many other writers.
It seems that Fântâneru depended on the support of his first wife during a very difficult period of his life,2 but that ultimately, he was abandoned by her. In this instance, writing failed to sustain him and he began a process of subjective and moral decay. Nevertheless, he was able to continue to teach Romanian literature and philology until the end of his days.
“Interior” is a curious title, almost ironic. It alludes to the novel”s vain attempt to conquer a certain mental space isolated from the world, a kind of continent without content, that at the same time defines the exterior. It is an effort through which the author sought to sustain himself, endow himself with consistency. Yet, despite his undisputed literary talents, Fântâneru only managed to complete this novel when madness overcame him. Madness is not necessarily incompatible with writing. On the contrary, there are numerous connections between the two. But they're not always solidary. The madman can only maintain his status as a writer provided that writing can shelter and contain the madness, offer the writer the framework that prevents him falling into the abyss.
Interior has one main character, Calim Adam, and it seems clear that there is little distance between the author and his protagonist. Adam is like a being without time or history. A succession of empty events, the novel fails to cohere into a unified narrative. Adam is a creature who glides through the world buffeted by the constant, random flow of life. He seems unable to arrest a wandering that drags him through a series of contingent encounters. Life is lived as a cluster of dissociated experiences, loose pieces that do not adhere together to form that inner (fictional) story by which ordinary subjects give meaning to their existence.
Through his “doppelgänger”, the author nevertheless manages, in a masterful way, to shape the decomposed experience of himself, poised between bewilderment and mystical euphoria. There is a remarkable contrast between the language and the subjective experience of the protagonist. The persistent descriptive beauty, which translates the emotional impact of the character to the overflowing fullness of all the reality that surrounds him and what he perceives, puts us on the track of something fundamental. Reality penetrates him such that it reduces him to tears, uncontrollably. Reality is so visible, vivid, luminous and overflowing that it swells into a kind of prolonged dreamy sigh. In a sense, we don't know if Adam is asleep or awake. In him, this distinction lacks importance, since it resolves itself into a precise and perfect term: “I am surreal”, he says. “Things represent a lamp under which I gradually move away. The effort of every moment is directed to remain surreal.” There is no direction, no orientation, no vital project that provides a spine to his volatile existence. “I think again about my destiny, and I glance at nothing but a fog that fills me with despair. I'm slowly losing sense of things.”
Absolute lack of sense makes him easy prey to anyone who crosses his path. Every encounter puzzles him and makes him wonder. Other characters emerge as out of nowhere, and to nowhere they return, since neither the known nor the unknown sign up for him in the text of memory. They are like magical, enigmatic appearances, to which you either try to dazzle or to which you succumb because of a lack of all possible answers.
As the writing continues its metonymic slide, the reader begins to grasp the main drama of the protagonist: the absence of a body. Possessing a body is not a simple biological fact, it's a starting point. It is the product of a complex subjective process that must result in an identification wherein the conjunction of the imaginary and the symbolic produces a sense of unity that enables us to negotiate the space around us and adopt a sexual position. In this regard, the expression of the protagonist is eloquent: “Since always, in front of the majesty of women I experience a feeling of humiliation and physical annihilation”. “Sadness, shyness, and nervous tics, acquired throughout my life, make me weak and grotesque, which is why I am unable to hold even the slightest conversation [with a woman].” Once again, the terms “humiliation” and “physical annihilation” should not be read as mere metaphorical expressions, they translate the real experience of the character, literally reduced to nothing. The female presence is devastating for him, because his absolute lack of sexual identity plunges him into an annihilating and deadly ignorance.
The book begins and ends everywhere, showing thus, with resounding clarity, that the life of Calim Adam, i.e. Constantin Fântâneru, has neither beginning nor end. It is a work extraordinarily faithful to the temporary destructuring of the character and author, brothers in an infinite present, neither of whom, unfortunately, literature managed to redeem. But for anyone who wants to understand what melancholy is all about, this book is a brilliant treat.
1 Constantin Fântâneru (1907-1975) was a Romanian poet and literary critic whose only novel, Interior was published in 1932.
2 Fântâneru suffered a nervous breakdown in 1942 and was hospitalized for 6 years in Bucharest.